As a young Black girl, I was acutely aware of the nuances of being marginalized. In my middle-class upbringing, discussions surrounding racism were common. I learned to advocate for myself with phrases like: “I am just like you. My blood is red, just like yours.” Now, as the mother to three children of mixed Sri Lankan and African American heritage, I feel the weight of preparing them for the racial biases they will inevitably encounter.
When I visited the emergency room in mid-March, I wasn’t expecting to confront discrimination. I recognized the signs—body language, specific phrases, and actions that screamed bias. However, I had never experienced it in a healthcare setting during a moment of vulnerability.
My symptoms were unmistakable: a fever of 102, a persistent cough, and intense body aches. It would be a grave error not to test me; not only for my family’s safety but for the wider community. As the pandemic intensified on the East Coast, I felt anxious yet hopeful as I entered the examination room. The crinkling of the paper covering the bed underscored my apprehension as I anxiously awaited the doctor.
When she arrived, fully donned in personal protective equipment alongside a medical student, I was taken aback. Their level of caution suggested a fear of my having COVID-19, despite the fact that I hadn’t even been tested yet.
While I waited for the results of my flu, RSV, and strep tests, I scrolled through social media. Posts from friends—many white—detailed their illnesses and test results, both positive and negative. I felt a growing hope that I could soon share my own results, believing that if they could gain access to testing, so could I given my matching symptoms.
Yet, when my test results came back negative for flu, RSV, and strep, the doctor stated, “We will assume you have COVID-19.” I was handed documents for work leave and strict quarantine guidelines: avoid contact with my family, use separate utensils and bathrooms, and monitor my symptoms closely.
I tried to use my family as leverage in this situation, hoping that the urgency of protecting my children would compel the doctor to reconsider. After all, my wife worked as a chaplain in the same hospital. Surely, they would want to ensure their health too. I am the director of programs at a heart health nonprofit in New York City, frequently interacting with hospitals on behalf of heart patients.
However, my explanations seemed futile. The information I had presented appeared not to influence the decision for testing. I had heard differing accounts about testing availability, particularly among friends of color who had to travel to wealthier towns to access tests.
In the emergency room, my requests were met with dismissal. The doctor informed me that testing was limited and offered only a chest x-ray, which she feared would not provide definitive information. I reiterated the need for a test to prevent my wife from unknowingly exposing her patients. The response was nonchalant: “Let’s wait and see if she gets sick.”
This was a period of uncertainty, not just for my health but for my family’s well-being. My wife transitioned to working from home before any official mandates, and we restructured our household to limit interactions. We monitored symptoms and waited, grappling with the burden of uncertainty.
Three days post-ER visit, I called for testing. The advice was to contact my primary care physician, who informed me that tests remained scarce. My fever eventually subsided, but I remained lethargic. On Day 8, I craved the comfort of my children’s hugs. By Day 14, I had completed my quarantine, but the anxiety lingered.
Despite the lack of fever or cough, I still worried about the possibility of spreading the virus. I chose a hospital near my home, located in a low-income area of our county, which paradoxically is part of a wealthy state. Yet, statistics indicated that Black residents in Connecticut were testing positive at rates significantly higher than their white counterparts.
Eventually, I was able to obtain an antibody test, two months after my initial symptoms. The results came back negative, but I understood that antibody tests are not infallible. I was left with the haunting uncertainty of whether I had been infected or not.
In summary, the difficulty I faced in accessing a COVID-19 test raises critical questions about privilege in healthcare. My experience illustrates the broader systemic issues that affect communities of color and their access to medical care during a crisis.
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